The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Unfortunately, he had a reason,” Kenneth murmured, sitting down beside the pair and pulling his son into his embrace. “He did it to hurt you, for being what you are. And he did it because of what your mother did, to bring his brother to justice. I know, it makes no sense to you and me,” he added, as Alaric looked up indignantly. “But I told you before that Bishop Oliver de Nore is an enemy. I just didn’t think we’d confront him here.”

  “There’s no way that any of us could have known that the horse was de Nore’s, my lord,” Llion said quietly.

  Alaric snuffled and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “That shouldn’t have made any difference,” he said. “All I did was ease her fear, keep her from injuring herself. And what he did was wrong! The horse didn’t have anything to do with his stupid brother.”

  “Nor did you, and it was wrong,” Kenneth agreed. “Unfortunately, it was not illegal. The horse was his, to do with as he pleased.”

  “Not to just butcher it,” the boy muttered.

  Kenneth sighed, for morally, he could not disagree with his son. But like it or not, de Nore had been within the letter of the law.

  “It was wanton destruction of one of God’s beautiful creatures,” Kenneth agreed, “and be assured that I shall tell the king about this, when we reach Rhemuth. But don’t expect that he can do anything about it, either. I wish it were otherwise, but . . .”

  Shaking his head, he gave the boy a final hug and gave him back into Llion’s embrace, then turned and went out of the cabin with Xander, back up to the deck, where the Gryphon’s crew were preparing to depart. A few minutes later, as the men cast off their lines and rowed out to catch the wind, Alaric and Llion also came back up on deck, and the boy watched silently from the rail as the port of Nyford receded, along with the sight of the butcher and his men cutting up the bloody grey carcass on the quay.

  Alaric did not play cardounet that night. He took to his berth early, though he slept only fitfully. Next morning, he was at his sword drills with Llion, but his practice had a new intensity. Even Xander remarked on it, as he and Kenneth watched from the afterdeck.

  “He’s still angry, my lord.”

  “Aye, he’s feeling guilt from yesterday, which he shouldn’t,” Kenneth said quietly. “But perhaps it has underlined for him the constant danger that will surround him increasingly, especially now, when he’s too young to use his powers to protect himself.”

  “It’s a delicate balancing act, isn’t it, my lord?” Xander murmured. “But I know he’ll be equal to the challenge.”

  “I hope so, Xander. I do hope so,” Kenneth replied.

  Chapter 14

  “Obey them that have the rule over you, and submit yourselves: for they watch for your souls . . .”

  —HEBREWS 13:17

  THE waters of the Eirian grew calmer, once they passed its confluence with the River Lendour, but the prevailing wind sweeping down the estuary meant that they often were obliged to augment sail with oars as they skirted the western coast of Carthane. Accordingly, the crew were more often engaged, swapping off on rowing duties, and the steersman Henry Kirby was less often available to play cardounet. When he and Alaric did finally play again, the last afternoon before the ship was to dock at Desse, Alaric played distractedly, and Kirby called him on it.

  “Are you still moping about that horse, lad?” he said sharply.

  Startled, Alaric looked up at the older man, then dropped his gaze to the board again.

  “Laddie, laddie, you may be Deryni,” Kirby went on more gently, when the boy did not speak, “but you’re still only a boy. Even a Deryni can’t change what happened. But maybe you can change what happens the next time. It’s your move, by the way.”

  Recalled to the game, Alaric reached toward one of his archers, hesitated, then deliberately moved his abbot instead.

  “It’s more than just the horse,” he finally said, almost whispering. “I made a serious mistake, Henry. This time, it only cost a horse, but it could have been a person.” He swallowed audibly. “It could have been me.”

  Kirby nodded, moving his priest-king. “That is true. And what was your mistake? In life, as in cardounet, we must learn from our mistakes. What was yours?”

  Alaric exhaled slowly, considering, and moved one of his archers. “I underestimated how much de Nore hates Deryni. And I underestimated how much he hates me, in particular, because of my mother. If I hadn’t been with my father, it could have been a fatal mistake.”

  Kirby moved his war-duke, not looking up. “That is also true. Fortunately, you were with your father. But tell me, given all the other things that you did or did not do, and knowing what you did at the time—or did not—could you have done anything differently?”

  As he looked up, frank challenge in his eyes, Alaric made himself go back over his actions for at least the dozenth time.

  “It would have been wrong not to have gentled the horse when we were loading her at Coroth,” he said slowly. “I probably saved her from serious injury. She might even have died.”

  Kirby nodded. “That is so.”

  “But in Coroth,” Alaric continued, “I was among my own folk, who know what I am and accepted that. And I was safe enough on a Corwyn ship.” He managed a mirthless smile. “It doesn’t seem to bother you, that I am Deryni.”

  “No, it does not. But what about Nyford? What did you know about Nyford, before we even docked there? And what did the folk in Nyford know about you?”

  Alaric hung his head. “I knew that they don’t like Deryni in Nyford, that there have been persecutions there,” he whispered. “And I knew that Oliver de Nore was the bishop there, and that he hates me.”

  “And?”

  “Well, who would have guessed that the mare was intended for de Nore?” the boy said, almost belligerent. “If I’d known, I never would have shown my face.”

  “And it’s quite a distinctive face, with that shock of blond hair, and traveling on a ship out of Corwyn with your father, who is also well-known,” Kirby said mildly. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, lad, but you must learn to think ahead, to anticipate these kinds of coincidences. This time, it only cost a horse’s life. Next time . . .”

  Alaric looked away. Kirby was absolutely right. It was an error born out of kindness and a natural inclination to be helpful, but he had not thought through all the possible consequences, especially there in Nyford, where they did not like Deryni.

  “I understand,” he whispered. “I didn’t think far enough ahead. Thank you, Henry.”

  “Right, then,” the helmsman said briskly. “Now, are you going to move that war-duke, or do I have to take it with my archer? Not this move, lad. Three moves ahead.”

  Alaric’s gaze immediately darted back to the board, and he soon saw the threat. “Oh!”

  “Don’t just say ‘Oh.’ Move the blasted war-duke out of harm’s way! Sometimes the best defense is a quick evasion.”

  • • •

  IT was just past noon the following day when they put in at Desse, which was the northernmost port on the Eirian that was navigable by seafaring ships. Here the Gryphon would be offloading cargo and taking on new before its turnaround to sail back to the Southern Sea. It would also be bidding farewell to its prominent passengers.

  Kenneth had sent Xander and one of the men-at-arms—the man who was not a good sailor—on ahead at the last overnight stop to secure horses, so the pair were waiting at dockside with the requisite mounts as Kenneth, Alaric, and Llion came down the gangplank with their remaining men, all carrying their saddlebags. Alaric’s spirits had improved somewhat after a good sleep, his last aboard the ship, but he knew he would miss Henry Kirby. Nonetheless, he was once again in good humor as they mounted up and headed north along the river road, eager to resume his young life.

  The weather had definitely turned while they made their way northward alon
g the coast from Coroth and then up the estuary. The nip of autumn was in the wind sweeping down the valley of the Eirian, and the horses were full of themselves, so Kenneth let them have a good gallop out of Desse to help the horses settle before reining back to the usual pattern of walking awhile and trotting awhile. It was good to be back in the saddle, good to be back on dry land.

  It was also good to keep moving, though this was a time of year that Alaric loved. All along the river road, the trees were ablaze with scarlets and ochres and tawny golds, many of their branches already going bare. At times, the horses crunched through carpets of fallen leaves. On the slopes across the wide river, crops had been harvested and farmers were burning off the stubble. The fields to the east likewise were short shorn and dotted with golden haystacks. All too soon, winter would be upon them.

  They reached Rhemuth just as the sun was sinking behind the leafy avenue of scarlet and gold leading from the river to the city gate. It had been market day, but the cathedral square was emptying, most of the vendors packing up their wares to head home, the shops lowering their shutters. As they rode into the yard at Rhemuth Castle, servants came at once to take charge of their mounts. Leaving Xander and Llion to get their party resettled into the quarters they used when resident in Rhemuth, and sending Alaric with them, Kenneth went immediately to the king.

  “And that was all we could do,” he concluded, when he had told Brion of their run-in with Nyford’s bishop. “It was nothing a young lad should have had to witness, much less be the cause of, but de Nore was within the letter of the law.”

  Brion sighed. Ordinarily, he would have had at least one advisor with him, but matters concerning Deryni were best handled out of the public eye, at least until he knew better what was involved. And since the king himself had—or would have—Deryni powers someday, much if not all depended on the son of the man sitting before him.

  “It was an unfortunate incident,” Brion finally said. “And it must have been very distressing for Alaric. But you’re right: de Nore was within his rights, much as it pains me to say that. We know that he reserves a special resentment—nay, a hatred—for your son—and why. But there’s nothing you could have done differently, to change the outcome.”

  Kenneth only sighed and bowed his head. “No, there wasn’t. I knew that must be your answer, but I had to tell you.” He studied his lap for several seconds, then looked up. “But, tell me of your news, my prince,” he said, putting on a more pleasant face. “You’ll have had my reports regarding the situation with Prince Hogan. Has there been additional on that? And what further news of Meara?”

  “A long and complicated story,” Brion replied, standing. “You’d best come and talk to others of the crown council. And I suspect that a good meal would not go amiss, after your days at sea. We’ll catch you up over supper.”

  • • •

  YOUNG Alaric would be privy to little that went on at the king’s table that night, for Llion made arrangements for meals to be brought up to their quarters. The next morning, however, while Alaric broke his fast with his father in the great hall below, Llion set about scouting the lay of the land regarding pages at court.

  “As you may recall, he was to become a page to Duke Andrew at year’s end,” Llion told Sir Ninian de Piran, heir to the Earl of Jenas, who was Duke Richard’s deputy for the training of royal pages. “Now he will be Duke Jared’s page. The duke is expected back at court for Twelfth Night. In the meantime, Alaric is progressing well—I had him training with the pages at Coroth—but I don’t want him to lose his edge while he waits for Duke Jared to take him on.”

  Sir Ninian gave the younger knight a knowing nod. “I saw him ride at the king’s birthday tournament,” he said. “An impressive showing. I understand that you are responsible for much of his training?”

  “His sire works with him when he can,” Llion allowed, “but—”

  “But you are the one who works him every day,” Ninian said, smiling faintly. “I also saw you ride at the tournament, Sir Llion. Credit where credit is due. If the time should ever come when Lord Kenneth tires of your services, you would be most welcome on Duke Richard’s staff.”

  Llion shrugged somewhat sheepishly, pleased at the compliment. “I shall keep that in mind, sir, but I expect that Master Alaric will need me for yet a few years.”

  “But less and less, as he takes up his formal training as page and squire,” Ninian countered. “Still . . .” He paused to consider for several seconds, then: “Bring him along to the practice yard this afternoon. I want to see what he can do when there is no competition. It may not be an easy few months for him, because he’s obviously more advanced than the other boys his age—and some of them may still be smarting from the trouncing he gave them at the tournament.”

  Llion made no comment, only murmuring his agreement as Ninian continued on his way, but he was thinking of one page, in particular, who had not been happy with Alaric’s performance, or with his own very poor one. And when Cornelius Seaton learned of his uncle’s run-in with Alaric, Llion suspected that sparks would fly again.

  • • •

  BOTH Llion and Kenneth were present later that afternoon, as Sir Ninian prepared to put Alaric through his paces on the practice field. Unfortunately, so were half a dozen of the other pages, Cornelius Seaton among them, lined up on a fence to observe. Not being in competition this time, the other boys had no direct or immediate reason to resent the newcomer, but that did not prevent whispered commentary among them, and glowering looks from several of them.

  But Alaric rose to the challenge. His own pony was still here at Rhemuth, though it had been ridden little during his absence. Nonetheless, half an hour in the arena soon had boy and pony back in harmony. He was riding patterns in the arena when Ninian showed up carrying several wooden swords and a pair of practice helmets, which he dumped at Kenneth’s feet. Llion was in the center of the ring, calling instructions to his charge.

  “Lord Kenneth,” Ninian said with a nod.

  Kenneth nodded in return. “Sir Ninian.”

  After a few minutes of watching with the boy’s sire, Ninian took up one of the practice swords and moved into the ring. Llion saw him and immediately signaled Alaric, who turned his pony and came to halt smartly in front of the pair.

  “Alaric,” Ninian said, with a nod. “I already know that you ride well and you’re good at snagging rings with a lance. I saw your performance at the king’s birthday tourney.” He glanced in the direction of the other watching pages and raised his free hand in summons. “Paget, Airey, could you please set up a couple of rings for me?” He returned his attention to Alaric, reversing the wooden sword to offer it to him hilt first.

  “I’m going to ask you to do a different exercise for me now. I understand that you saw squires riding at rings with swords while you were in Coroth.”

  Alaric gave a nod as he took up the sword. “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you get to try it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’d you do?”

  Alaric dared a faint smile. “It was a good challenge, sir. And I did fairly well.”

  “All right, let’s see how you do here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alaric murmured, and lifted the wooden sword in salute before turning his pony to take position at the far end of the arena, opposite where Paget and Airey were setting up the rings.

  Ninian and Llion withdrew to stand beside Kenneth. The boy glanced in their direction when the older pages had finished and withdrawn to sit on the fence again, and, at the older knight’s signal, he kneed his pony into a gallop, sword extended. He took the first ring neatly, and then the second, pulling up then to turn and glance at Ninian, who nodded his approval.

  “Again.”

  Dutifully Alaric saluted with the sword again, then trotted over to where Airey and Paget were climbing down from the fence.

  “Nic
e riding,” Airey said, as Alaric tipped the sword down to let the rings slide off.

  “And a good eye,” Paget added.

  “Thank you,” Alaric replied, then trotted back to the opposite end of the arena to wait while the two older boys reset the rings.

  This time, when he rode at the rings, he only knocked the first one from its peg, but he continued on to snag the second. His brow was furrowed as he pulled up and turned, but he trotted obediently out to meet Ninian, who was striding toward him, and smiling slightly. Llion followed behind him with the two practice helmets and more wooden swords.

  “You may have noticed that I had Paget substitute smaller rings on that run,” Ninian said. “But you didn’t let it break your concentration. Get down now, and let’s see how you perform on the ground.”

  Alaric complied immediately, first handing his sword to Llion, then jumping down to put on the helmet that Llion offered, also pulling on a padded glove for his sword hand. The sword Llion handed him was similar to the one he had used to snare the rings, but with a light basket hilt to protect the hand. Turning, he saw that Ninian now was similarly helmeted and armed. As Llion led the pony back to where Kenneth was watching, Alaric wondered what Ninian had in mind.

  “All right, this is to assess your level of training, not to get you hurt,” Ninian said, making a few practice swings to limber up. “I have twice the reach that you do, and I can hit much harder, but I want you to spar with me as if I were a pell that can move to block your blows. That means that I want you to land solid blows. And don’t worry, you aren’t going to hurt me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alaric said somewhat uncertainly.

  As Ninian lifted his sword to the vertical and gave a nod, Alaric gave it a tentative whack, then another from the other side. But after the first few contacts, Ninian’s sword started moving more actively—in no way aggressive, but inviting the boy’s attacks from a variety of directions.

  Alaric responded with increasing confidence, and shifted several of his exchanges into more serious attacks. He never quite managed to land a blow on the knight, who countered most of his ripostes with ease, but he was left with the feeling that he had done far better than Ninian had expected.